Time Machine: Chapter I

trammels a restraint that is used to teach a horse to amble; a instrument that draws ellipses, by restraining the pen on 2 perpendicular tracks.

The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him)
was expounding a recondite matter to us. His grey eyes shone and
twinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed and animated. The
fire burned brightly, and the soft radiance of the incandescent lights
in the lilies of silver caught the bubbles that flashed and passed in
our glasses. Our chairs, being his patents, embraced and caressed us
rather than submitted to be sat upon, and there was that luxurious
after-dinner atmosphere when thought runs gracefully free of
the trammels of precision. And he put it to
us in this way—marking the points with a lean forefinger—as we sat and
lazily admired his earnestness over this new paradox (as we thought
it) and his fecundity.

“You must follow me carefully. I shall have to controvert one
or two ideas that are almost universally accepted. The geometry,
for instance, they taught you at school is founded on a
misconception.”

“Is not that rather a large thing to expect us to begin upon?”
said Filby, an argumentative person with red hair.

“I do not mean to ask you to accept anything without
reasonable ground for it. You will soon admit as much as I need
from you. You know of course that a mathematical line, a line of
thickness nil, has no real existence. They taught you that?
Neither has a mathematical plane. These things are mere
abstractions.”

“That is all right,” said the Psychologist.

“Nor, having only length, breadth, and thickness, can a cube
have a real existence.”

“There I object,” said Filby. “Of course a solid body may
exist. All real things—”

“So most people think. But wait a moment. Can an
instantaneous cube exist?”

“Don't follow you,” said Filby.

“Can a cube that does not last for any time at all, have a
real existence?”

Filby became pensive. “Clearly,” the Time Traveller proceeded,
“any real body must have extension in four directions: it must
have Length, Breadth, Thickness, and—Duration. But through a
natural infirmity of the flesh, which I will explain to you in a
moment, we incline to overlook this fact. There are really four
dimensions, three which we call the three planes of Space, and a
fourth, Time. There is, however, a tendency to draw an unreal
distinction between the former three dimensions and the latter,
because it happens that our consciousness moves intermittently in
one direction along the latter from the beginning to the end of
our lives.”

“That,” said a very young man, making spasmodic efforts to
relight his cigar over the lamp; “that … very clear indeed.”

“Now, it is very remarkable that this is so extensively
overlooked,” continued the Time Traveller, with a slight accession
of cheerfulness. “Really this is what is meant by the Fourth
Dimension, though some people who talk about the Fourth Dimension
do not know they mean it. It is only another way of looking at
Time. There is no difference between Time and any of the three
dimensions of Space except that our consciousness moves along it.
But some foolish people have got hold of the wrong side of that
idea. You have all heard what they have to say about this Fourth
Dimension?”

“I have not,” said the Provincial Mayor.

“It is simply this. That Space, as our mathematicians have
it, is spoken of as having three dimensions, which one may call
Length, Breadth, and Thickness, and is always definable by
reference to three planes, each at right angles to the others.
But some philosophical people have been asking why three
dimensions particularly—why not another direction at right angles
to the other three?—and have even tried to construct a
Four-Dimension geometry. Professor Simon Newcomb was expounding
this to the New York Mathematical Society only a month or so ago.
You know how on a flat surface, which has only two dimensions, we
can represent a figure of a three dimensional solid, and similarly
they think that by models of three dimensions they could represent
one of four—if they could master the perspective of the thing.
See?”

“I think so,” murmured the Provincial Mayor; and, knitting his
brows, he lapsed into an introspective state, his lips moving as
one who repeats mystic words. “Yes, I think I see it now,” he
said after some time, brightening in a quite transitory manner.

“Well, I do not mind telling you I have been at work upon this
geometry of Four Dimensions for some time. Some of my results are
curious. For instance, here is a portrait of a man at eight years
old, another at fifteen, another at seventeen, another at
twenty-three, and so on. All these are evidently sections, as it
were, Three-Dimensional representations of his Four-Dimensioned
being, which is a fixed and unalterable thing.”

“Scientific people,” proceeded the Time Traveller, after the
pause required for the proper assimilation of this, “know very
well that Time is only a kind of Space. Here is a popular
scientific diagram, a weather record. This line I trace with my
finger shows the movement of the barometer. Yesterday it was so
high, yesterday night it fell, then this morning it rose again,
and so gently upward to here. Surely the mercury did not trace
this line in any of the dimensions of Space generally recognized?
But certainly it traced such a line, and that line, therefore, we
must conclude was along the Time-Dimension.”

“But,” said the Medical Man, staring hard at a coal in the
fire, “if Time is really only a fourth dimension of Space, why is
it, and why has it always been, regarded as something different?
And why cannot we move in Time as we move about in the other
dimensions of Space?”

The Time Traveller smiled. “Are you sure we can move freely
in Space? Right and left we can go, backward and forward freely
enough, and men always have done so. I admit we move freely in
two dimensions. But how about up and down? Gravitation limits us
there.”

“Not exactly,” said the Medical Man. “There are balloons.”

“But before the balloons, save for spasmodic jumping and the
inequalities of the surface, man had no freedom of vertical
movement.”

“Still they could move a little up and down,” said the Medical
Man.

“Easier, far easier down than up.”

“And you cannot move at all in Time, you cannot get away from
the present moment.”

“My dear sir, that is just where you are wrong. That is just
where the whole world has gone wrong. We are always getting away
from the present movement. Our mental existences, which are
immaterial and have no dimensions, are passing along the
Time-Dimension with a uniform velocity from the cradle to the
grave. Just as we should travel down if we began our existence
fifty miles above the earth's surface.”

“But the great difficulty is this,” interrupted the
Psychologist. “You can move about in all directions of Space, but
you cannot move about in Time.”

“That is the germ of my great discovery. But you are wrong to
say that we cannot move about in Time. For instance, if I am
recalling an incident very vividly I go back to the instant of its
occurrence: I become absent-minded, as you say. I jump back for a
moment. Of course we have no means of staying back for any length
of Time, any more than a savage or an animal has of staying six
feet above the ground. But a civilized man is better off than the
savage in this respect. He can go up against gravitation in a
balloon, and why should he not hope that ultimately he may be able
to stop or accelerate his drift along the Time-Dimension, or even
turn about and travel the other way?”

“Oh, this,” began Filby, “is all—”

“Why not?” said the Time Traveller.

“It's against reason,” said Filby.

“What reason?” said the Time Traveller.

“You can show black is white by argument,” said Filby, “but
you will never convince me.”

“Possibly not,” said the Time Traveller. “But now you begin
to see the object of my investigations into the geometry of Four
Dimensions. Long ago I had a vague inkling of a machine—”

“To travel through Time!” exclaimed the Very Young Man.

“That shall travel indifferently in any direction of Space and
Time, as the driver determines.”

Filby contented himself with laughter.

“But I have experimental verification,” said the Time
Traveller.

Battle of Hastings The Battle of Hastings was the decisive Norman victory in the Norman Conquest of England. Battle of Hastings

“It would be remarkably convenient for the historian,” the
Psychologist suggested. “One might travel back and verify the accepted
account of the Battle of Hastings, for
instance!”

anachronisms an error in chronology by which events are misplaced in regard to each other. anachronisms.

“Don't you think you would attract attention?” said the
Medical Man. “Our ancestors had no great tolerance for
anachronisms.”

“One might get one's Greek from the very lips of Homer and
Plato,” the Very Young Man thought.

“In which case they would certainly plough you for the
Little-go. The German scholars have improved Greek so much.”

“Then there is the future,” said the Very Young Man. “Just
think! One might invest all one's money, leave it to accumulate
at interest, and hurry on ahead!”

“To discover a society,” said I, “erected on a strictly
communistic basis.”

“Of all the wild extravagant theories!” began the
Psychologist.

“Yes, so it seemed to me, and so I never talked of it until—”

“Experimental verification!” cried I. “You are going to
verify that?”

“The experiment!” cried Filby, who was getting brain-weary.

“Let's see your experiment anyhow,” said the Psychologist,
“though it's all humbug, you know.”

The Time Traveller smiled round at us. Then, still smiling
faintly, and with his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he
walked slowly out of the room, and we heard his slippers shuffling
down the long passage to his laboratory.

The Psychologist looked at us. “I wonder what he's got?”

“Some sleight-of-hand trick or other,” said the Medical Man,
and Filby tried to tell us about a conjurer he had seen at
Burslem; but before he had finished his preface the Time Traveller
came back, and Filby's anecdote collapsed.

The thing the Time Traveller held in his hand was a glittering
metallic framework, scarcely larger than a small clock, and very
delicately made. There was ivory in it, and some transparent
crystalline substance. And now I must be explicit, for this that
follows—unless his explanation is to be accepted—is an
absolutely unaccountable thing. He took one of the small
octagonal tables that were scattered about the room, and set it in
front of the fire, with two legs on the hearthrug. On this table
he placed the mechanism. Then he drew up a chair, and sat down.
The only other object on the table was a small shaded lamp, the
bright light of which fell upon the model. There were also
perhaps a dozen candles about, two in brass candlesticks upon the
mantel and several in sconces, so that the room was brilliantly
illuminated. I sat in a low arm-chair nearest the fire, and I
drew this forward so as to be almost between the Time Traveller
and the fire-place. Filby sat behind him, looking over his
shoulder. The Medical Man and the Provincial Mayor watched him in
profile from the right, the Psychologist from the left. The Very
Young Man stood behind the Psychologist. We were all on the
alert. It appears incredible to me that any kind of trick,
however subtly conceived and however adroitly done, could have
been played upon us under these conditions.

The Time Traveller looked at us, and then at the mechanism.
“Well?” said the Psychologist.

“This little affair,” said the Time Traveller, resting his
elbows upon the table and pressing his hands together above the
apparatus, “is only a model. It is my plan for a machine to
travel through time. You will notice that it looks singularly
askew, and that there is an odd twinkling appearance about this
bar, as though it was in some way unreal.” He pointed to the part
with his finger. “Also, here is one little white lever, and here
is another.”

The Medical Man got up out of his chair and peered into the
thing. “It's beautifully made,” he said.

“It took two years to make,” retorted the Time Traveller.
Then, when we had all imitated the action of the Medical Man, he
said: “Now I want you clearly to understand that this lever, being
pressed over, sends the machine gliding into the future, and this
other reverses the motion. This saddle represents the seat of a
time traveller. Presently I am going to press the lever, and off
the machine will go. It will vanish, pass into future Time, and
disappear. Have a good look at the thing. Look at the table too,
and satisfy yourselves there is no trickery. I don't want to
waste this model, and then be told I'm a quack.”

There was a minute's pause perhaps. The Psychologist seemed
about to speak to me, but changed his mind. Then the Time
Traveller put forth his finger towards the lever. “No,” he said
suddenly. “Lend me your hand.” And turning to the Psychologist,
he took that individual's hand in his own and told him to put out
his forefinger. So that it was the Psychologist himself who sent
forth the model Time Machine on its interminable voyage. We all
saw the lever turn. I am absolutely certain there was no
trickery. There was a breath of wind, and the lamp flame jumped.
One of the candles on the mantel was blown out, and the little
machine suddenly swung round, became indistinct, was seen as a
ghost for a second perhaps, as an eddy of faintly glittering brass
and ivory; and it was gone—vanished! Save for the lamp the table
was bare.

Everyone was silent for a minute. Then Filby said he was
damned.

The Psychologist recovered from his stupor, and suddenly
looked under the table. At that the Time Traveller laughed
cheerfully. “Well?” he said, with a reminiscence of the
Psychologist. Then, getting up, he went to the tobacco jar on the
mantel, and with his back to us began to fill his pipe.

We stared at each other. “Look here,” said the Medical Man,
“are you in earnest about this? Do you seriously believe that
that machine has travelled into time?”

“Certainly,” said the Time Traveller, stooping to light a spill at the fire. Then he turned, lighting his pipe, to look at
the Psychologist's face. (The Psychologist, to show that he was
not unhinged, helped himself to a cigar and tried to light it
uncut.) “What is more, I have a big machine nearly finished in
there”—he indicated the laboratory—“and when that is put
together I mean to have a journey on my own account.”

“You mean to say that that machine has travelled into the
future?” said Filby.

“Into the future or the past—I don't, for certain, know
which.”

After an interval the Psychologist had an inspiration. “It
must have gone into the past if it has gone anywhere,” he said.

“Why?” said the Time Traveller.

“Because I presume that it has not moved in space, and if it
travelled into the future it would still be here all this time,
since it must have travelled through this time.”

“But,” I said, “if it travelled into the past it would have
been visible when we came first into this room; and last Thursday
when we were here; and the Thursday before that; and so forth!”

“Serious objections,” remarked the Provincial Mayor, with an
air of impartiality, turning towards the Time Traveller.

“Not a bit,” said the Time Traveller, and, to the
Psychologist: “You think. You can explain that. It's
presentation below the threshold, you know, diluted presentation.”

“Of course,” said the Psychologist, and reassured us. “That's
a simple point of psychology. I should have thought of it. It's
plain enough, and helps the paradox delightfully. We cannot see
it, nor can we appreciate this machine, any more than we can the
spoke of a wheel spinning, or a bullet flying through the air. If
it is traveling through time fifty times or a hundred times faster
than we are, if it gets through a minute while we get through a
second, the impression it creates will of course be only
one-fiftieth or one-hundredth of what it would make if it were not
travelling in time. That's plain enough.” He passed his hand
through the space in which the machine had been. “You see?” he
said, laughing.

We sat and stared at the vacant table for a minute or so.
Then the Time Traveller asked us what we thought of it all.

“It sounds plausible enough to-night,” said the Medical Man;
“but wait until to-morrow. Wait for the common sense of the
morning.”

“Would you like to see the Time Machine itself?” asked the
Time Traveller. And therewith, taking the lamp in his hand, he
led the way down the long, draughty corridor to his laboratory. I
remember vividly the flickering light, his queer, broad head in
silhouette, the dance of the shadows, how we all followed him,
puzzled but incredulous, and how there in the laboratory we beheld
a larger edition of the little mechanism which we had seen vanish
from before our eyes. Parts were of nickel, parts of ivory, parts
had certainly been filed or sawn out of rock crystal. The thing
was generally complete, but the twisted crystalline bars lay
unfinished upon the bench beside some sheets of drawings, and I
took one up for a better look at it. Quartz it seemed to be.

“Look here,” said the Medical Man, “are you perfectly serious?
Or is this a trick—like that ghost you showed us last Christmas?”

“Upon that machine,” said the Time Traveller, holding the lamp
aloft, “I intend to explore time. Is that plain? I was never
more serious in my life.”

None of us quite knew how to take it.

I caught Filby's eye over the shoulder of the Medical Man, and
he winked at me solemnly.